Mind of the Virtuoso
by Jhin of the Opera
Summary: "I will make you beautiful. I will make you perfect." A POV depiction foretelling the tale of the murderous flower known as Khada Jhin, of his past, his present, his every masterpiece. The strings he would pull, the many tunes he would play, every stroke of the art in pursuit of making all beautiful.
1. Prologue I: I am Jhin

Prologue I : I am Jhin

When did I succumb to the art?

I never asked. The art and fascination never asked questions.

Jhyom was my birthplace, a simple street within Ionia's vast districts. The continent was known for its harmonious cultures in contrast to other borders, as well as the enlightened beauty that brimmed throughout the land under nature's grace. It was the epitome of peace, as the people dwelled and flourished in its harmony.

But something just felt….off.

The harmonious cultures of the continent had appeased many, but the lack of change suffocated me; _what beauty was there in the stagnancy of peace?_ Come spring and flower fields would compete in full bloom, and the fragrance of lotuses would soothe the capital; pink blossoms would coat the green hue of the trees, as the sun's rays adorned the sparkling, mirroring water that coursed through Ionia's streams. Come winter, and the descent of snowfall would bless the land with the purity of cold white, each snowflake delicately unique as it brought the land its wintry gift, where the flora would shine even in their withered forms under the frigid atmosphere. As nature flourished, only peace stood still like an unmoving, insentient rock.

There was little to no discord outside of that. The lack of change, the life of balance and harmony, the silence that encompassed the country – had perturbed me.

 _It was unappealing._

My father, once a blacksmith and martial arts master. It was only us in that little hut across the countryside, where he would take me around Jhyom Pass to witness the many wonders of Ionia in times away from work. Despite such rough living, he was appreciative of the beautiful, a perfectionist in his craft. He cherished even the fallen petal of a flower, a bird's shed feathers, making various forms of craft with them that he deemed to be his masterpieces. I remembered myself having great respect for him, but even he did not know of my incessant thoughts of contempt toward Ionia's lack of discord.

My father would entertain me by taking me to the many opera houses and theatres scattered around the province, watching famed and renowned actors and puppeteers entertaining audiences there. And in each show, I examined every movement as the actors and puppets moved, and sang, and danced. They cried, they killed, they argued. Many a story came to life as if they were real, arousing my every sense. _So vibrant! So divine!_ I was utterly absorbed in such finery. _Such art_ , I thought. My father, noticing my enraptured expression towards the performing arts, had sent me to learn from every spectacle. I would visit theatres and operas, or speak with their actors at least four times a day. Four was enough to appease me. Four was enough to brim my head with such artistic thoughts.

As my interests flourished, however, my father's skills had begun to wane. Eventually, his fascination towards the beautiful had consumed him. His craft became faulty, and the martial school dwindled as his cadence and precision waned at his tinpot. It earned him scorn; it earned him humiliation and disgrace.

He had succumbed to the beauty and peace of the world to the point where it had deprived himself from what he had; his work, his art, and by his own hand, his life.

 _His death had taught me to not do the same._

Do I remember tears of my father's meaningless death? His was the first death I'd witnessed in my life, or, at least – the death of a human. The realization came to me then; nothing was eternal. Even the prettiest blossom would wilt and turn an unappealing brown. Even the most plentiful, golden wheat fields would be abandoned, burnt and cleansed after the wheat had been harvested. Even the most melodious birds would be deprived of their songs by old age. And my father had died just so simply, with nothing to take with him, nothing that made him memorable. They all withered and perished, plainly.

 _Tacitly and unknowingly, death made one ugly._

I was alone then, under the night of a full moon, two days after my father's suicide. I had no purpose. Even the theatres and operas at dusk had failed to enlighten me, but I knew my stagnant thoughts were not due to my father's passing.

 _Even after so long, I had no answer._ Like a puppet without strings.

Footsteps, steps of a limping figure, echoed in the night. Curious, I sheltered myself beneath the long grass and watched the scene before me.

It was a battle between two men; an escaped prisoner, eyes red with rage in the night, and a merchant away from his cart. It was a robbery, likely; the merchant had been damaged on the leg but still struggled against his assailant hand-to-hand as their fists clashed, strike after strike against each other echoing in the silent night.

It was nothing like the operas and theatres I had seen before. This was a real fight, with real screams and punches. The act was rich with motion; the act was vibrant.

A blade glimmered, unseen from the unwary man in the moonlight. With one nimble strike, the criminal stabbed the victim in the abdomen. I watched him flinch as his legs gave way, falling to the ground. Before me, the man had been killed, as my eyes collected every detail of his death.

The splatter of blood. His writhing form, struggling in agony over the pain. The ear-splitting screams of the hurt and those related to the victim as they hurried to his corpse while the killer quickly escaped. That of which was a rarity in Ionia.

 _It was fascinatingly different. It was nothing like the fake deaths in all the scenes and operas I'd watched, meant to appease the audience. It was discordant._

 _Cruelly discordant, and I loved it._

My father's death and the first scene of strife I saw in life - that was when I found my answer.

There would be no strife without peace, and the other way around. Death was indubitable and undeniable, yet it had always been dealt in the most gruesome, simple of means.

 _But whom had ever attempted to seek the beautiful in murder? Who said that death and killing had to be ugly?_

The idea marvelled me as it enticed my senses, enchanting me, like a snake charmer's tune to a cobra, like the scent of floral nectar to bees _._

 _That was my answer._

And so I had sought to….. _illustrate_ the acts.

My father's forge reignited. The lessons in his martial school, that had barely survived on willing disciples, continued, but my father was no longer was the one sitting at the helm, hammering at molten steel or educating students in the martial acts. My fingers worked as they were compelled and controlled by someone else, each stroke as skilful as my father did before me. Ideas enticed and stimulated my brain as the steel that stacked in my father's old establishment transformed into pieces of artwork. The scrolls that were abandoned on my father's shelves were clear of the accumulated dust as I went through each page and studied the work through sleepless nights, one after the other. I would train and learn from my father's subordinates in the ways I had not learnt before.

All in pursuit of the ultimate art:

Art that _killed._

I'd inlaid my first tools within one of Tuula's many farmsteads; I'd placed all the skills I'd garnered in a mere week to test at that one moment. I'd arrived earlier than anyone else would, and disguised as a farmer, I'd blended in with the little townspeople around perfectly; I would watch my disguised form in the pools of stagnant water that encircled the plentiful, thick wheat, divided in four fields, ready for harvest that autumn morning. Through martial and acting practise, I had learnt to fully control my facial muscles, appearing at the scene with a….plain, common expression. I frowned at that thought, but my performance had to be subtle.

I roamed the golden fields and hid four blossoms inconspicuously – north, south, east and west, within the wheat field – and waited.

And I watched. The sun would emerge from the mountains, slowly, as skilful brushes painted the sky with ethereal shades of blue, orange and purple. The sky was displayed vividly, and a group of four farmers had just arrived, ready to reap their hard-worked harvests.

The sun lit down upon the fields like a theatre's spotlights, giving my puppets their cue…

 _And my performance had begun._

Like the first kill I'd witnessed, everything replicated itself; a scream; then another. Thrice. Four times. Blood emerged from each puppet like a wondrous display as they decorated the golden hue of the harvest with a sanguine red, like fireworks adorning the night sky. My heart leapt at their struggle as their futile attempts to escape inspired me, spread across the field from all four angles, perfectly symmetrical and aligned.

I'd killed all four that day. But their deaths were no longer hideous. I saw nothing ill in their struggle, no ugliness in their demise.

I had embellished their corpses with my craft. I had made their deaths memorable. Made their deaths _beautiful._

It was my first performance, and I had to admit – _this was meant for me._ This was the discord I had sought. This was…..

 _Delightful._

As my work blossomed from the day of my debut, they gave Zhyun's new malicious killer a name – the Golden Demon – for which I was notorious throughout the land that had brimmed with the beauty of my work. I would wander through theatre and opera house, working as a stagehand, to spread my art. Screams of agony would bloom from their trepid, anguished voices like a cacophonous choir; music to my ears. Every composition I composed was one of sanguine, leaving behind fitful traces of my work as minds were shattered and corpses were twisted to my liking. Each had a signature pattern, each body a piece of paper to illustrate with my paint and brushes. I sought to make each kill unique, each perfect.

There was no stopping the art. Not myself, or anyone. No one could stop me then. They could hire armed armadas. They could pester the most skilled of demon hunters. I would sit bemused, out of sight as they searched and trampled my canvases, only for some to turn into pieces of my productions. They could pray for help all they wanted, yet not even the Wuju swordsmen, whom had upstaged my father's artistry, had managed to catch a glimpse of the creator behind the divine work.

What was my name then? I was perfection. I was the lotus blossom. I shone like the radiant sun. I was…..

 _Excellence._

 _Jhin_. How befitting.

Even amongst the stagnant cultures of Ionia, there was but an exception of a day that I favoured best: The Blossom Festival, held in the southern province, a stone's throw away from our old hut every year. My father would bring me here annually, to witness a collection of Ionia's finest arts from paintings, to music, to calligraphy in the evening of Jhyom Pass, one of the more famed streets in Zhyun.

 _And it was, for three years since then, my perfect stage for opening night, where all would witness the true meaning behind my exquisite artwork._

I was confident to adorn Jhyom Pass with my finery that day. I wondered how many would I claim that day; Two? Three? No, _four_ was always the favoured number. Equally divided, and enough to, albeit momentarily, gratify the will of the art that never ceased to flare within my soul.

Dressed in my best garbs, I was determined to entice the town with my display, as I always had in previous years. I observed the busy street out of sight, knowing that I had my garden set across the western borders that led to an avid, gathered crowd near the exit that led to the river. A careless step and the flowers – my personal craft of blades - would bloom; the art would flourish as they caught their victims, or alert me of possible distractions that attempted to upstage my act.

Was I always this aware? Since when did my work carry risk? As the years passed, I knew there was but one obstacle to my work. The Grand Master of the Kinkou Order, whom I had been eluding for four years on end. Though old, he had accomplished many feats with his merciful, unwavering justice, revered throughout Ionia as a hero. He could try to fool me, but he couldn't. Even if it seemed as if he had not taken action, I all but knew he was searching for me with his disciples in tow. I had seen through them, but my work had yet to waver Kusho's iron-hard soul.

I remembered spying on him as he went from house to house where I had performed, yet Kusho's mane had not ruffled; his lips had not curved, nor did his eyes move or waver.

And I had set my sights on him as my ultimate masterpiece.

But the art would purge my mind of this wariness. My theatre and audience would not wait. I smiled as opening night began; below my stage I noticed a fine puppet, an elderly man sitting at a secluded corner with his frail fingers brushing upon sheets of paper. He was away from the avid crowd, but it seemed that he wouldn't move to the perfect spot I had set, either.

But art had to be subtle before it was loud. It wouldn't do to start with a bang on such a fine night, where the moon still shone at its peak. Such a perfect puppet stood before me. I could not resist my instincts echoing for my cue, to begin my performance.

I readied a blossom and descended carefully from the roof, placing more along my path and examined the area carefully. I reached plain sight of him as he still continued his work, unaware that his finale was imminent. I smiled. My limbs shivered in excitement as I tapped the surface of my weapon once. Twice. Thrice. Four times. Another cycle, and it would signal action for the act.

 _One. Two. Three._

 _Four._

I lunged-

But I had failed.

The anguish! The burning, aching sensation as I quailed in pain as the blade sliced over my right eye, cowering before my unseen assailants. It was impossible. How could have these two youths approached me unnoticed?

It was until I was brought before the very calligrapher I had sought to murder as the three figures removed their disguises, and it dawned upon me:

 _I had underestimated Grand Master Kusho._

His rejection to attend to my art was but a deception; he knew I would be wary should he scour the province for me, which would disturb my performances in the passage. I was not the only one capable of deception and disguise. I had been wary throughout my four years of acting in his existence. I had eluded him and attempted to waver him with my craft at every attempt I could.

But this time, I had been foiled by him.

And to that, I lost my career. I'd lost my art, and my right eye. Back then, I was banished from my own theatre.

I stood helplessly as I watched one of his students charge toward me; the carmine eyes were soaked with malice, as the young boy lunged at me with his spinning blade in hand. The boy's limbs quivered as he strode forward, discording his otherwise steady march in order to deal his justice. His eyes, one scarred - had borne witness to my craft, as did Kusho's son, who only stood by his father's side as their phlegmatic eyes peered at my vulnerable form.

It mattered not that the youths were Kusho's best disciples; even the most granite of hearts would succumb to the purity of my work. It inspired me that the two Kinkou youths had their faces painted fearfully by my opera, the ecstatic smile I had under my mask when I observed their faces as they exposed my first masterpiece that day – the boy's evident fear even as he readied his strike was proof of that - yet the Grand Master remained stoic. His was the only face that had yet to sway from my work.

It was clear at that subtle moment of truth, that fatal moment before I would fall reprehensibly under the hand of the Kinkou Order, to be stripped of my beauty and personal stage, all under a careless decision. Kusho's disciples been influenced by my show.

My time for thoughts, however, had little point. Here I was now, caught red-handed and defeated, cowering against the wall.

 _And so I was to die then…_

But the equanimous gaze of the master's eyes had stopped his adopted disciple. The famous Eye of Twilight had decreed that, rather than execute me for the many productions I have performed, I was to be confined in the Tuula Prison – perhaps life imprisonment – as atonement for my crimes.

If it wasn't for his mercy, the art would end with my life.

The thoughts of being parted from my art, my canvas – they asphyxiated me. I was lucky enough to be spared from dying an ugly, unfitful death, but being torn away from my stage – could a man of such dedication withstand such despondency? Nonetheless, in spite of my imprisonment, I was granted vague inklings of my love in the Tuula prison, where I was fed well, and taught in the arts, the arts I hadn't a chance to learn in my childhood; Ionia saw fit to make the best out of each prisoner, and I was trained to my father's customs, to smithing, to song, to dance.

It wasn't so bad after all, but such little forms of art weren't what the finest artists deserved. I would smile under my covered face, not saying a word as the tutors and wardens marvelled in my productions. The guards, the teachers, and the small window for air within my cell were my only links to the outside world, to my theatre that I so desperately wished to return to, but it just wasn't enough. This was no theatre; it was simply boring rehearsal. They would attempt to indoctrinate me, away from my fascinations – but who were they to purge me of the finery that no one else but me would understand?

It was my fourth year, each year of my imprisonment always as blasé as the next. Outside the silence of the cursed bars locking me away from my beloved podium, war broke out – amidst that period of strife, I would lean in, unnoticed, on subjects that the guards and wardens would speak aloud of, of news that Noxian empire had waged war on the continent. News of their assault in the southern borders – here – would entice me, as even the manpower of the jail had shifted to defending the homeland from Noxus' assault. It was a chance. A chance to witness, in my many long years of censorship, a production.

 _A production that, could, under the right circumstances, even set me free._

And I would watch, even if the scene was vague, from the window in my cell, the only window of freedom that allowed me to gratify my art to the world. The mountainous location of the Tuula prison meant that it was slightly challenging, though possible, to catch a glimpse of Noxus' collaboration with Ionia. A nation that displayed heavy contrast with Ionia's balance at war? It was enticing. I would watch as the sting of clashing steel echoed, fire burning the landscape, men with cries of pain, war, and death on the field.

 _So loud, yet so silent._ A fascinating production, but Ionia was - as I had seen all my life - _so plain_ , whereas Noxus' means of killing were…..so _gauche_. A prompt, inspiring production, but it lacked that sweetness, that soul, of a masterpiece.

 _They made death ugly and unappealing. They were unfit of the art._

Unprivileged as I was to be unable to witness the full spectacle of the indelible staging, the war had corrupted the balance that Ionia once maintained with lusts of power and control, arousing the desire for strife and bloodshed. The prison's guards would speak of political instability and many new rebels and rifts amongst the people. Ionia had won, but Noxus had left too strong an influence towards the balance the people sought to protect.

And my hopes had come to fruition.

Even caged birds had their voices, and they would be, eventually, released by one that yearned to hear their songs - and my voice was heard. My work was acknowledged. My talent was, for once, appreciated and coveted, to satiate the newly garnered desire for war and control over the corrupted country of Ionia.

I smiled as the cabal stood before me with their preposition. The ruling camarilla didn't have the Wuju swordsmen, nor the famed ninjas of the Kinkou Order.

But the clientele had me.

And thus, I was at long last freed from that wretched prison. Kusho's mistake had spared me and given me, after four long years of waiting, another chance to reorchestrate the terror that had I had once swathed Zhyun with.

Of course, who better to kill than one who forges beauty in it?

I had returned. Khada Jhin – the Golden Excellence – had returned.

And thus, I would indulge my cabal with my work, bringing them smiles; I would victimize my audience and victims, taking pleasure in every moment of their screams. I would toy with the strings, like a master puppeteer manipulating every move of his puppets, making them brim with life as they sang and danced. I would leave my mark of signature art across the world….

 _And show them what beauty truly is._

There would be no obstacle to halt the art. Even after enduring four painstaking years in Tuula, I had designated my canvas elaborately, the details of my true masterpiece engraved in my mind, stirring to be performed.

Kusho's death was to be my ultimate masterpiece, but my dear puppet had long since vanished. As such, it would start with the malicious young boy that tried to kill me then, the boy who stole my right eye, the Master of Shadows, as they would now call the traitorous man. He who had stolen the stage for my ultimate piece, the death of Grand Master Kusho. He would learn of the art and die for it. To the unfortunate loss of my most esteemed puppet, Kusho's son, struggling with his father's broken legacy and his loss of the Kinkou Order, was his best substitute. I had listened to all from within – and I had long planned their finales in hopes of my return to the work.

They had tried to stop me, and they would learn – _art cannot be contained._

No longer would I be bound to silence, no longer sentenced to the past as a fallen artiste deprived of his name and work. With that, I had risen from the forgotten. I had emerged once more from the thick of the filth untainted. I had, at long last, returned to my theatre anew, ready to perform once again.

The forthcoming dawn will mark my returning debut to the stage, and their final scene would begin.


	2. Prologue II: Whisper

Prologue II : Whisper

And now, I had returned at last, to my beloved theatre. There was much to do, much to ponder upon, indeed.

Where would I start? The yearning within me to begin my debut was excruciating; like a bird no longer confined to the bars of its cage, I was released and in full spirit to set my song free. Immediately, thoughts of the art intoxicated my every sense, as the inclinations to re-enact my art spread across me, adorning me like a painter's skilful strokes on paper. The art gave me beauty and purpose; it was my love and meaning. The absence of the art would make me mere mediocrity.

 _I would not suffer under such simplicity, such ugliness. It had been too long, and my time had risen again._

Thus opening night in Zhyun would begin that evening-

No, wait…..

 _Wait…_

Momentarily, I managed to pull myself through the honeyed, compelling thoughts of the art in my head. I, for now, was not my own man; at least not entirely. For once, my work was needed and appreciated. I had an audience with high expectations of me. And although they needed me, I was also restricted and in need of them, as well. After all, what purpose would an opera serve without critics or an audience? It was a mutual deal, really; I would work under the cabal as their assassin, whereas they would provide me with my freedom and everything I needed to reorchestrate my work.

But they demanded my work to be subtle. My clientele preferred silent work, something that, while possible, I abhorred. My work had to stand out; I wanted Ionia to bear witness to my craft, the work in which I alone managed to execute and practice.

I acquiesced to their terms, nonetheless - after all, I knew full well that eventually, even my clients would bear the same fate of of all puppets in my opera.

It was all part of the art. Everyone would have their chance to bear witness. Everyone was privileged to take part in it.

Disguised, I decided to first set foot upon Zhyun once again, the venue of which I had spent most of my career within. Bliss entered me at first foot I set within my home borders; _long had I yearned for my return! A painful eternity I had waited!_ Even if my face had not shown it, my return to the homeland was nothing short of ecstatically nostalgic. How I missed everything; from the various shows that were my childhood appeasement to the many sites and places as my beloved Jhyom Pass, even the remnants of our hut, since abandoned with only remnants of my father's craft.

I had missed _everything_. Long had I yearned to return, for Zhyun was, in our time shared together in my prime, _my_ finest canvas, _my_ most famous theatre, the best of _my_ opera houses. How pitiful it must've been - to have suffered under the ugly, stagnancy of neglect in my absence.

 _But all that was to change….sooner, or later._

I covered every inch and corner of the border and learned of the varying ways that had changed Ionia within four years through my new clients. Ionia had finally broken free from Noxus' partial grasp of influence as the people united; nonetheless, the struggle for power was still existent behind the shadows.

Through all the various happenings that I had not had the chance to witness in my four years of confinement, everything had become so…

 _Heteroclite._

But mere thoughts accomplished nothing. It excruciated me to resist the pang in my soul that urged to reveal to all of Ionia of my masterful return, to once again have the spotlight shining upon me, to once again garner the attention and applause I so rightfully deserved.

My rationality however, sparred with the turbulent attraction, knowing that it would perhaps be best if I did not act yet. The clashing, discordant tunes revolved to form an unappealing, dissonant piece, strangling my mind with such incertitude.

Yet the incentivizing tinge of inspiration dwelled upon my mind, convincing myself: _surely my audience would be far more excited for a major improvement in my career? Out of the old and breathe in the new._

My rework began with the Kashuri armories. Throughout my imprisonment within Tuula's cells, the only hint of knowledge I had to the venue was that it was Ionia's prime source of weaponry, with the keenest of blades and bows and arrows of the best grade manufactured there. Of course, Ionia's tranquil customs meant that the armory proved noncore until the Noxian invasion came by.

Although Ionia was never engaging in the customs of weaponry and element, it was in recent discovery that the continent was found to be brimming with magic. Magical energy, raw and unadulterated, was scattered across the land and imbued naturally without everything; all ready to be collected and utilized. The Kashuri armories had been, in secret, researching the use of such magic under Zaunian influences; it was only recently that I was told of the true stories behind the war, how Noxus had collaborated with Zaun during their invasion in the continent.

Even then, Zaun's methods were not much better than Noxus. Destroying an entire Wuju monastery, whom had once overshadowed my father's work, with acid smoke? Effective, but so _gauche_. Alas, I was lucky that one of my more valuable canvases was not gravely damaged, or I would miss out on the experience and jubilee of another fine performance.

I needed them. I needed them all. Only my work could beautify them. They would only die by my hand and no one else. Only under the touch of my actions would they prove memorable.

And so I was to prepare everything for my debut there; my clients were generous, providing me with everything I needed to escalate the scale of my would-be performances. I was presented with the finest smiths and given all the cash I would need in my pocket, the since-developed forges provided all to my leisure. Alas, despite their generous offerings, I decided to partake in the work myself. My work was signature; the art was one and one alone. To that, I did not precede the beginning of my preparations with my stage provided on a silver platter; I did not want interferences to my craft.

 _I was the one true practitioner of the art. Only I could execute my genius. None could do the same; none could rival me._

Settling into the change after my four long years of imprisonment, everything together weaved a canvas that seemed so…

 _Avant-garde._

The inspiring muse curved my lips upward; it would be a lie to say that I wasn't pleased of Ionia's various developments, the moribund of its concord dwindling into dark hearts brimming with desire for influence and power, and the finery that I was provided with, the catalysts to escalate the art. The plot to Ionia's story was, at long last, thickened to a more appealing tale; no longer cliché or symmetrical. No longer _boring._

Not all was laid out a bed of roses for me, however; as the echo of conflict emanated around the continent, so did the scale of threats that posed as hindrances to my work. I frowned at that thought; _how could an artisan function under frequent distraction and duress?_ Even for a country that once harboured a plot as bland and plain as day, Ionia was no pushover in its military prowess that had flourished within the years of my imprisonment, and my clients had ascertained this.

I was not called out for mere performance. The Noxian invasion had brought conflict even upon the unity of Ionia's ruling council, to the point where they had succumbed to the shadow of avarice and influence. To that purpose, I was freed as a weapon. I would be asked to beautify more than mere bounty hunters and the Wuju swordsmen. I was expected to handle every threat to my clientele; from Lito's daughter to the many Ionian Elders that competed for power over the countries, as well as other influential organizations under the hand of political sides, perhaps even any foreign forces that may arrive to aid them.

For instance, say, the now fallen Kinkou Order, that was responsible for halting my art, the organization led by Kusho in censoring my work. It has since fallen, taken after Kusho's son, one of two of the Eye of Twilight's followers during the day of my fateful capture. The Kinkou Order, was, alas, not lost; again I dwelled under my luck in that all my best opportunities were kept intact, a puppet not stolen by that treacherous boy akin to how he stole his master from me.

Above all, and thinking of him now, of course, _he_ of all people would know, and he would be most wary. My biggest impediment by far, yet also to be one of my finest puppets: the Master of Shadows, the boy who wanted to kill me back then, the boy who loathed and resented me, more so then my former captor's descendant. It was clear back then; my work had appalled him. It had devoured a part of him.

Eager as I was to deliver the art to my new favoured puppet, the art was as dangerous as it was beautiful. I needed caution. He was no pushover, nor was Kusho's son a slouch. My new art was a difficult piece, but I was confident to realize it.

The two stars were now apart; the thirst for more drama grew as I excited myself in the development. Even as enemies, it was possible they would, in a moment of time, work together. They would find me, they would hunt me down, and they would kill me. I had escaped from the ugliness narrowly, at a time four years back. For Kusho's mercy had spared me, and the result? The trees of my freedom had bear fruit; and all who were hungry for their taste would learn the hard way.

In time, all would remember Kusho – no longer as the hero who maintained Ionia's balance, but for his failure for stopping the art. _Revenge at its finest_ , even in his unfortunate, pitiful death his former apprentice had stolen from me.

And try to stop me as they may, I remained generous to grant them the finest death I could offer. Much like their master's most renowned victory of my capture, theirs would be my true masterpieces. Theirs would be an opera of death unparalleled to any other piece of my work.

And before me, they would cower, in awe, in disgust, or fear.

And I would pull their strings. They will dance, they will sing, they will _die!_

The new craft was not simple, much like my productions themselves. Growing accustomed to my father's ways from my childhood had taken merely a week to study, yet the complexity of the new craft was difficult and time-consuming. The weeks of study accumulated to months, and even with every promising day of development, it was agonizing. As little time as I attempted to utilize to prepare for my grand debut, with each passing day the compulsion of the art only grew harder and more difficult to resist. My blood boiled and my heart would pace unsteadily as I researched and smithed. The art could not be resisted; not even by me.

I was no longer shackled by the toils of the prison, and I needed to act. Wild thoughts would traverse through my mind, at times calm, akin to the tranquil waters of a stream, in others vexed and destructive, like an ocean's waves raging in the storm. The inveterate urge clouded my mind like a drug, as every inch of my body ached to dazzle upon the stage again.

 _It wouldn't hurt,_ I thought. _One kill? Maybe two? Three? No, four?_ How I yearned for their music; how I yearned for the melodrama of performance as they writhed and acted with every command I weaved, how the art flourished with every brushstroke.

But I knew it was best to wait, as I promised myself. _All good things to those who wait,_ as they say; my starring composition, my debut, salient to my return – nothing less than perfect would be countenanced. I had everything I needed. My theatre needed renovation. I needed superior tools to the craft I had once used. Everything had to be fresh. Everything needed to be new.

Everything must be perfect.

 _But how long could I endure this via dolorosa? How could an artist survive further disunion from his art any longer?_

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ︻デ═一 ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

At last, it was complete. Half a year the work took, but at long last, it was complete.

I felt the furor of my fingers as they caressed the smooth surface of the weapon, the first of which I had crafted myself utilizing the many wonders my new clientele had provided. It was not fully technological; it was not bound by the technological warfare, the simplicity of Piltovian craft. It was magically enchanted; I could feel the energy exude through the weapon's bronze, sturdy surface, caressing the section near the frame where the smith's name was spelt and engraved; four simple, but fine lines, representing the weapon's ammunition and my favourite number.

The magazine held four shots; the liquid magic implanted within each bullet – the fouth and final one being the most discernible – would be the paint from which the art flowed, the notes from which the mellifluous music would emerge. I had forged my craft meticulously, much so that my painstaking days of forging it were well worth the result.

Every element was to be in place. I loaded the bullets myself as I counted them with each conspicuous snap the gun made, as the enchanted cartridges of metal made themselves comfortable within it.

 _One. Two. Three._

 _Four._

 _How melodiously the weapon sang, even without instruction._ Indulging in the final traces of the _leitmotif_ , I tapped the hard surface of the steel in an alternating, blunt tune, like a musician and his instrument. I delighted in the discordant sounds the weapon made in her various ways. The many ways she sang could form the finest choir; between her many tempos and tones, her music was heavenly, as I continued to weave more music with her, chanting along….

 _One, two, three, four. Two, two, three, four….._

The weapon enticed me; it was difficult to put her aside once my fingers wrapped around her delicate surface. What I had in my hand was a singer waiting for her cue. Her music would take flight when I permitted it; each bullet would be a song, a tune, an orchestra, all a masterpiece that would touch the hearts of all whose ears were adorned with her tune.

I was the director; she, the actress. My grip tightened around the handle as one of fingers reached for the , locking itself on the trigger. The small, hooked section of metal was the cue; it was with such a simple movement that my deathly opera would come to life, that my art and music would emerge and proliferate into the finest galleries and orchestras.

 _The moment before the shot…..is painful. Delightfully painful._

 _Ah, how her music would soar!_ Yet again, the very touch of on her sleek surface inebriated my mind with such rapturous cogitations. The creative thoughts entered at once, devouring my every sense like the irresistible ambrosia of the strongest wines, more than capable of drowning me within the drunken stupor of the art.

She needed to be rewarded for such song.

The weapon connected to me, her and I. Simply by holding her, I could hear her voice susurrate within me. She would speak of her desires she shared with me; to make all beautiful. Her soft, enchanting voice would enamour me as she whispered into my ear.

It _inspired_ me.

 _Whisper._ Yes, how befitting a name.

It was the fourth time that my cloth had cleansed her, wanting not even the slightest blemish to sully her divine surface. My lips twisted into a gratified smile as her body glimmered with an appealing, untainted shine. Alas, it was only with four times could I make her clean and immaculate.

She was but my finest set of strings, my best paintbrush, my irreplaceable instrument. But hers would be not the only song I had in mind for my opera.

Art was best seen – and executed – from a distance. My whisper would only be the main act; the end would be just as much, if not more important. And thus with her grace I devised for her the perfect crescendo; I had built myself a cane imbued with the same energy I applied within my gun, as well as a capacitor that held again four shots - four individual works of art - within the encasement. The weight of the instrument had come with golden plating on my right arm meant to cushion the otherwise harmful impact of the instrument's recoil. Art was best done – and seen – at a distance. A gratifying aspect, and with all three instruments combined, it would procure the finest finale; one I could deliver from the peak of Tuula's mountains to the former war zone that stood many a mile away from my height.

My clients preferred a subtle performance; the scale of my show would have to be cloak-and-dagger for the moment.

 _I envied silence….because I had to be loud._

Alas, while my work was to be played in a pianissimo, I knew I would garner my chance to resonate it….

 _Eventually._

Only amidst the dregs of carnage would my calling blossom most beautifully.

I couldn't resist another look. My new garbs were all but splendid, starting with the black, slick body suit that tightened on my skin, pacing my breathing. The black clothed most of my body bar the fingers on my left palm and my right eye.

Complementing the suit, I was gifted with clothes of the finest silk, the vivid pink and purple formed a fine harmony as I pieced my costume together, adorned with the finest emeralds at the collar. With it, I applied the sections of plating upon my shoulder; made of the finest and sturdiest of golden, it enclothed the entirety of my right arm to cushion the otherwise harmful resonance of the crescendo's recoil. I mounted the accelerator – that carried yet again four alternate bullets— upon the shoulder of my plated arm, before I finished the bodice of my costume with the pristine, flowing cream cloak that hid the section of metal; from the perspective of another, it would seem as if a deformity had plagued my shoulder, but it was but another sheet of music, another brush that would release the art. The combination of the colors and the shine of the gold and jewels were absolutely mesmerizing, as I smiled at myself, proud of my new, innovative dress code.

 _I dressed to kill, but if I was to make them beautiful, need I not be stunning myself? My new costume, my new look - it would only be befitting if it rivaled the art itself._

And there was the mask. The mask was the sole irreplaceable craft of an icon's figure. I sought to make mine….aesthetic. The hardened, white leather surface was made of the sturdiest quality; I sought to make mine neither round nor oval, as the face urged me to smile alongside it.

Staring back into the mirror before me that displayed my fresh, newfangled look as I put the mask on, I saw only flawlessness. I saw only pulchritude.

 _I was fabulous._

The mask was my true face. And when I perform, I would see only what my eye wanted to see; the limited vision, the absence of depth, allowing to grasp the precise, subtle moment of the art. With this, I could witness my craft at its finest; to indulge in the ecstasy of the kill fully and unequivocally.

The communique of my release would soon spread throughout Ionia's security borders. News of my escape would not stay silent: The Golden Demon, Khada Jhin, once imprisoned, now a fugitive currently at large, as my clients would describe in recent wanted posters of me – and I would smile upon hearing the news.

I welcomed their wariness; I was no longer confined. I was now the vibrant butterfly, evolved and emerged from the caged walls of the cocoon. My wanted posters were but advertisements of my upcoming play, the foreshadowing of theatre that I would bring them. T'was a pity that my debut now lacked the element of surprise, but even that was trivial; they had something to be enthralled and excited for.

Only now, had I truly risen. I was now the epitome of beauty, forging the awe-inspiring and appealing in the taint where no one else would, bringing them – _and making them_ \- my finest works.

 _I would make them famous; I would make them beautiful; and I would make them perfect._


	3. Prologue III: Death in Four Acts

Prologue III: Death in Four Acts

Why couldn't the dawn arrive posthaste enough for me?

T'was only a few moments before the sun had even given off even the faintest trace of its light, the morning a gloomy darkness where all but very few were still at rest; forcing myself to rest the night before was a struggle, but the looming inspiration for today's performance provided me with all the energy I would need for the day.

I was granted a place to stay amidst the abandoned, secluded regions, near the unseen boundaries of Tuula's mountains that were neglected after the Noxian invasion. It was a modest setting, but one I was content with. I was given everything I needed; time, freedom, funding…..so long as I adhered to my clientele's desires.

 _And eventually, only to mine._

I began putting on my disguise; wondering how much time had passed, I gazed out at the view framed by my windowstill, ascertained to witness the faintest traces of orange emerging behind Tuula's mountains. From there, the sun's rays would slowly begin painting the skies with ethereal shades of purple, blue and yellow as the morning grew over closer in reaching its destination. I had to make haste. The timing of the art needed to be precise for my first assignment.

I watched my performing ensemble at it stood in the corner of my room, complete with the peacocked mix of the white cloak, finest jewels of emeralds, rubies and the golden plating - they promised beauty to whomever was privileged to put them on. And there was the mask - the exterior of which was my true face when I performed.

Succumbing, I retrieved it and put the leathered visor on; art was best done under the eye of this mask. It was what made me feel everything; to indulge in the art in every inch of its finery. It was the mask and the gun that made it so I relished every moment. The mask smiled at me as I would smile to them; the actors would only be _gauche_ without the compelling element of their simpers.

 _Yet until now, when had they given me more smiles than screams?_

The surface of the mask meant that the art had carried me away yet again, the irresistible urge consuming me like a flame to a moth, threatening to destroy me if I crossed the line even once. My muse had me locked inside its solid, iron-hard bars, resisting all futile attempt to regain my senses. But could I fault it? After all, it was with that day I would once again embrace my art after so long, but I couldn't officiate a performance just yet; it would be too obvious. Too manifest.

Disappointed as I was to wait for my time in the spotlight, I surrendered regardless: rehearsal was always beneficial as it would contribute to a flawless performance. As much as I could not stage my debut yet, today was but the day I would reunite with what I did best.

The tune of the bells rang subtly; I'd hidden them along the path to my room to alert me of anyone coming.

 _If I keep getting interrupted, how can I be expected to work?_ I sighed as I quickly hid my mask and regained my composure.

My eye met the maid entrusted to my service, a young girl in her blossoming season.

"Hello?" She asked, noticing me. Her pristine voice had inklings of an upbringing in the southern regions a stone's throw away from these abandoned Tuula grounds. Thankfully, the young girl had not noticed me in my mask; none had, not even my clients. I would not see to even the slightest of traces from my masterful entrance brought to naught before the time had come.

"I presume all is set for my rehearsal?" Putting aside such thoughts, I queried her, expectantly.

"All is set as per your details, sir," She replied, an obedient, phlegmatic look on her cherubic face. Dull, and predictable; a terrible mask would be made out of it, so generic, so common. "A white lantern every two yards."

"Then it is time to start the show."

My first task was at hand; my clients had addressed the mill town for my first rehearsal. Strategic, for first there was little to witness, especially during the early hours – and in that if there was no one to man the food production in the town, it would plunge the district's citizens into an existential crisis, burdening other states aiding them as well.

I had retrieved my disguise – the old, cluttered cloak I used four years back, during my first performance - as I headed out to attend to my first piece, my introductory canvas for the day, situated in Navori, the southern region between Zhyun and Tuula. I watched as the lanterns hung in the air; I preferred to measure distance that way, as it was simple and quite practical; they also indicated paths I was unfamiliar of just in case I would be….interrupted, as to be expected.

 _Inspiring as the work was, it was not without risk. I had to be careful._

Was this all deja vu? My first killing in years, similar to that of my first kill as the truth dawned upon me? It was a similar setting; the wheat fields, vacant and unlively before the sun came out, and the collected water that nourished the plants enough to reflect my meticulous disguise clearly from its mirrored surface.

I touched my gun, hidden inconspicuously under my cloak. Beneath my disguise, yet again, small inklings of her voice emerged and coaxed me, wanting me to bring out her song the instant the moment was right, not a moment later after her cue had begun, as she wrapped my index finger on her trigger.

Eventually, I had found my first target, a middle-aged man, the factory supervisor, the person I was ordered to assassinate, as he roamed the fields carefreely.

How I'd missed all this; painfully, excruciatingly. The return to the art benedicted me, as my heart pumped discordantly, swiftly, away from the calm waters within me that were I futilely tried to maintain.

And I waited. I readied her as I did my best to not make the slightest sound - my quivering left hand beholding her made it difficult - as I held holding the impatient urge as I watched my puppet take every step, closer to the designated space….

 _Come into the light, I thought. Let the spotlight compel you as it did me, and your scene will begin….._

Now.

Time halted to a standstill as my finger pushed the trigger. It was with one perfect shot; the silence of an inanimate stone, yet the swiftness of the fastest arrow, as it reached its target.

And I waited - to witness the alteration, the supremacy of my new craft.

As if to finally answer my prayers to put an end to my moments of impatient waiting, the art emanated. It rearranged its target to something far more riveting; my breath hitched excitedly in my throat as I observed the impossible emerging from what was the worker's plain figure. A stalk, no, a branch? Whatever it might have been, it sprang out of the canvas as it propagated, slowly, but beautifully - as the branches spread out, and at their tips flora springing into bloom….

 _Yes!_ The bliss inundated my every sense as my canvas illustrated itself before me. _How kosher! How prepossessing! How seraphic!_

 _More! Inspire me!_

What emerged came out the very vivid life of a newborn tree, with blossoms in their full bloom, as vibrant as any such plant in the spring; the man was the vessel, the nourishment of the work, as a few moments of the finery lasted until he burst into an explosive flurry of art.

I emerged from my hiding spot - thankful that no one else was there yet - as I examined the corpse.

 _It was beyond anything I'd ever imagined._

The taste was beyond ecstatic. I struggled to keep in such furored excitement, to return to hiding amidst the conspicuous shade of grass I hid in. But it was difficult.

Eventually, I laughed. It was a cruel, relishing sound of pure ecstasy and euphoria.

 _This was the art_. Nonesuch, all so preordained and inimitable, only continuing to accrete from the realms of my gloried past. This man was honored to have been my first piece in four years, the first piece of my newly put, honed technique.

 _Inspiring._

My first performance in so long had received many a praise from my new employers. They had examined the venue after my performance – and truly, I'd outdone myself in this particular canvas. Of course, I served a discerning clientele, a cabal whom had taste for true art; the first of such things in my career, where I was flattered and respected for my genius.

I caressed Whisper's surface gently amidst the satisfied chatter of my clients; I could feel her longing for my touch as I rewarded her, knowing that the first piece was complete, and three works of art remained in her case, waiting to be released.

 _One day, four acts_. A befitting, perfectly aligned distribution for my opera.

 _One down,_ I thought _. And three to go._

 _I ~~~~~~~~_

The water's aseptic hue as I watched myself in the lake evinced what I was; in all form of purity, the divine and the perfect.

Even in the vivacious afternoons of Ionian spring, the atmosphere seemed….so gelid. The sun cached itself behind a diverse gallery of clouds, all else but colors of cold selections. There was the luxuriant color of the cerulean sky; the green of the surrounding flora, camouflaged and commingled harmoniously; and the untainted lake, a conspicuous, unsullied reflection of what surfaced on it.

Galrin Island was an amalgam of little attraction - no contrast, no antithesis _._ A salubrious afternoon, they could call it, but alas, so unostentatious. _A stage beneath my talent, but one I would gladly elevate._

My fingers stretched outward as they framed the perfect spot where I would begin adding the paint that would bring out the conspicuous, beautifying blessing of my work. As the blades of my flower glistened under the thin slits of the sun, enticing my every sense as my finger caressed their surface - I paused before I placed it hidden amongst the blades of grass.

My learning of the magicks were not confined to merely my new weapons. The lotus blossoms remained a personal favourite, as I wondered how differently this one would bloom over the ones that had blossomed in their prime four years ago.

 _A field with no flowers? Alas, a simple adornment I could grant to this tawdry setting._

Of course, this would've been easier - and better - if I had a wider selection of colors for when I needed to elocute my art. It was easy to picture the implications of which the art would come out from this particular piece, being one of my first works, albeit now improved by magical enchantment.

Need the essence of life be so idiosyncratic? For blood to be granted the exclusiveness of sanguine and nothing more? Alas, the reddish hue was the best color for such a setting.

And with my setting established, again, I waited.

 _I must wait until a composition is perfect._

It wasn't long before a lass skipped into the clearing, as I made myself scarce from view as her innocent footsteps strolled across the grass. A fine maiden she was; in her early tens, her silky hair that of a sunshine gold, and her cheeks and lips a vermeil that shamed even the reddest of roses. In normal eyes, she was in every inch a sight for sore eyes, with a voice that rivaled even the most melodious of singing avians. I continued watching. Butterflies fluttered in the airy grace around her as her song took flight; pure and ephemeral, as well, even so that nature's grace would surround her with each innocent step, with each note of her song.

 _Inspiring, I thought._ But come, and learn what true talent is. _I am the tutor. I am the master._

Four steps away she was, before the show began; before the fields she so adored would escalate, before the flower field would flourish.

One. Two. Three.

 _Four._

I watched as the blades snapped themselves shut and the bouquet spread across the piece, like a rose bush sprouting from shrub to full bloom. Taken aback, the girl writhed in the grasp of the art, as the petals formed and emerged under the grace of the magic induced within-

 _Bloom, my darling. Bloom, and be beautiful._

A shriek, a scream. Then another. Her voice escalated further, allowing the peak of her voice to resound to the heavens. A pity that she had no audience, but I was the only one she needed.

 _Let your song take flight, on the threshold of the beauty that is the perfect death._ Would she have heard my whispers?

 _More! Sing for me!_

As the petals of my flower encased her, it signaled her cue, as I raised the gun, and my second shot resounded-

 _Goodnight, sweetheart._

A brisk, stunning finale; the blood splattered perfectly under the grace of the bullet's magic, as the green of the grass was painted marvelously with her bloodlife - and so did the lake near her, as the sanguine blended in with the crystal clear water, reflecting the once simple greenland now beautified with her scarlet.

Satisfied of the adornment I had blessed the girl and the island with, I approached her corpse to witness her up close; the blood had spread to form a perfectly symmetrical blossom, reflected vaguely in the waters tainted with sanguine.

 _Utterly perfect._

But what was most odd of the corpse was that fact that her face - barely intact - still _smiled._

 _She still smiled? Had she noticed? Did she succumb to the euphoria like I did? Did she indulge in the death I had granted her?_ It was a first for feedback.

 _Alas, such an innocent girl. When they find you,_ the words murmured in my head, _they will cry._

 _What sweet sadness is killing?_ The final traces of my inspiration weaved anew as I departed the archipelago, complacent of my second act.

 _Two._

 _II_

The sunset arrived. Arguably my favourite hours, as there was much to rush on; it would provide me with the nervous inspiration I required before the crucial performance tonight, as I was recently informed an important scheme that evening.

And where better to practise but in Zhyun, of all places? The very sentiment enticed me; long had the district been kept away from my craft. Long had it missed me for my work. Long had the sabbatical of the art plagued it - but no more.

I stepped in again, disguised and unrecognized, Whisper coercing me as I took every step.

 _Who would I play with today?_

I caught sight of a familiar face; a familiar voice as she spoke to another citizen. I felt the surprise well up in me.

 _Wait, wasn't that-_

 _Ah, yes! I remembered her!_

She was the actress that performed. The Star of the Inn, as they would call her; her experience would wow the crowd, as it wowed me when I was young, before my father's departure, before I was granted with the blessing of the art.

Four years had done a lot to her…..yet no longer was she preparing for performance at such hours. No makeup, no elegant costume. No excited audience stood waiting at the entrance. Only silence.

 _She was the proud actress no more._

I learnt that much from her; it was with every question I gave did I receive every inspiring, satisfying answer. She called it life - but look at her now. She had let it all go and fallen to such ugliness. Out of grief? Out of boredom? What was it that caused her to give up on the arts I was once so enchanted with?

 _It was a disappointment. I had to remind her._

 _Missed me, had you not? Shall your finest student grant you a taste of what he's learned throughout his years?_

 _And much like every performance we made, you will be music. You will be poetry._

 _You will be beautiful._

Unwaveringly, amidst the silence of the abandoned theater, I fired, as the music weaved itself; there was the briskness of violin to the fortissimo of the finest strings. They played, a marveling crescendo weaving itself under the grace of the art, as she screamed, eliciting the very opera she once starred in.

 _A costume, some makeup…..a spray of blood._

 _You have taught me much_ , I thought, _and now it is time I returned the favor._

Her corpse left an astonished expression; common, but I had made her beautiful.

Perhaps I had regretted it? _Maybe -_ But apart from that, the third shot hit its mark and - yet again - another canvas stood before me, another sculpture of my finest designing.

 _Three._

 _III_

 _At last, the finest evening had arrived for me:_

 _Opening night._

 _And this time, I was allowed to be loud._ The return of a recent member of the political council would trouble my hirers, and so I was ordered to… interview him. It was a special case, as such a respected political figure would never be alone. An audience would surround him.

That alone was the essence of the art. An audience that would bear witness. What use was a performance without a crowd?

 _I lived for the applause; he would die for it._

 _And this would would the fourth act. Every moment mattered; up until now, not a single shot had gone to waste. And this time, this final bullet, would the loudest; the most conspicuous._

 _And so would this kill._

 _There could be no eternal hiding; nor would I be suppressed under the duress, out of the spotlight. I was the art._

 _But was perfection good enough? The thought coursed through my mind as I waited in anticipation, knowing that my debut was about to begin._

The figure stood above the top of the foyer as he gazed down at the citizens below, as they revered and gazed at him with respected looks, in awe and respect. I watched the silky, white beard that coursed from the elder's face as he delivered his speech towards the citizens below, and frowned. It spoke of the nonsense that was the peace, wisdom and balance that would be promised to the continent.

 _Not with me around._

For Ionia would be peaceful no more. And by revealing myself this time, I would be wanted. I would be hunted. I would, if the moment called for it, be stopped.

The art was all I had, and it was the art that would guide me in my career here. I would not stop, and I would not falter.

I examined the puppet for the performance meticulously. _Why waste your life to old age? I have a superior alternative._

The magic in this final shot - the fourth, as it writhed in excitement, the magic glowing and flowing almost noisily as it was encased within her - was immense. I couldn't resist a few more seconds, as his promises of speech elicited nonsense that were the painful, inharmonious tunes to my ears, that only invited the finest of music. My lip curved as from my finger trembled:

 _Killing you will be one of my finest works._

 _It would all be dealt here, while the performance would flourish._

The art was released and it devoured the man as it hit its mark. What emerged far surpassed my three other works that day; in the night, the canvas gave off the light of the brightest sun, the beauty of the most ethereal full moon. It was the focus of all eyes, that light - as the shot enveloped my canvas, arousing the elder's screams - but music to my ears - as he writhed like a worm on a hook within the art's graceful, gratifying touch. The light lasted for moments - along with his screams, everyone else shellshock over the display - before it burst into an explosive flurry of art, like fireworks in the night, one after the other.

 _The light faded, and only the spread-eagled bits and the pool of blood were left behind. The art that exhibited itself was extraordinary. And so was the reception of it._

They screamed. They marvelled. Their faces twisted in grief and in madness as the performance revealed itself. They stood in shock as guards frantically looked in every inch and corner, only to find nothing. I could see their faces, but they were ignorant of mine as I concealed myself on the high ground of the roof, under my mask, beneath the shadows of the night.

 _And now they knew._

 _My art left my mark; my canvas left but the splatter of blood subtly engraving the mark of my designing. Unseen and unfamiliar by many - perhaps some would recognize it, but there, on my stage, all was but screams and chaos._

 _Khada Jhin had returned._

 _And much like every performance I made and would make - every promise of one performance being the last but a lie - all will be music. All will be poetry._

 _All will be beautiful._

 _Four._

 _IV_


End file.
